Wild As The Wolf
by OldValyriaRises
Summary: Arya Stark wasn't interested in what was expected of her. In the North, she could be fairly free. When Sansa is betrothed to the prince, Arya is thrust into the scheming politics of the Royal Court, where deceit is currency and noone is safe. Teaming up with an unlikely ally in King Robert's bastard, the pair discover the awful truth; in the game of thrones, you win or you die. A/G
1. Arya

_A/N: This is my first attempt at GOT fanfiction. Some of the plot will follow the actual storyline, some will differ. I've aged up all of the characters, but tried to keep the age differences the same, so hopefully I haven't messed up. _

_I hope you enjoy it! _

* * *

**Chapter One**

**ARYA**

* * *

Arya Stark had always hated Septa Mordane, but today, her hatred ran even deeper than before. A raven had reached Winterfell from the Kingsroad just a shade past dawn, and it brought with it the news she had been dreading above all else.

The King's party would arrive shortly before nightfall, which meant that she had to stand patiently as her mother brushed non-existent specks of dust from the dress she'd forced her into while the stupid bloody Septa paced in front of them, grilling her relentlessly on etiquette.

"And you must always address King Robert, Queen Cersei or the princes with their proper titles."

"I know that," Arya snapped for what felt like the hundredth time. "I have to call them 'Your Grace' and curtsey and do all that other stupid, pointless stuff."

Catelyn, who had been busy tucking away the stray strands of Arya's hair into her braid, tutted. "Arya, it's not stupid to be respectful."

Arya rounded on her mother, hands propped on her hips. "It is so! Yes, Your Grace, no, Your Grace… from the way Father tells it, King Robert doesn't have a drop of grace in him."

"_Arya_!" Catelyn scolded, appalled. "You mustn't speak like that. King Robert is a very dear friend to your father, and the _king_."

"And a fat old drunk," Arya muttered.

"_Arya_!"

"Mind your manners, young lady," Septa Mordane warned. "Or you might end up with your tongue cut out."

Arya scowled, but didn't respond. At least with her tongue cut out she wouldn't have to simper and fawn all over royalty. She wasn't much good at pretending she liked people when she didn't.

"And do wipe that frown off your face, darling," her mother said, softening a little. "You'd look much prettier if you smiled more."

_Fat chance of that, _Arya thought. _Sansa's the pretty one. I'll always be Arya Horseface. _

"I don't need to look pretty. The prince is coming to marry Sansa, not me."

"That doesn't…" Her mother's words were drowned out by the squeal of the door opening. A moment later, Sansa Stark herself entered. Arya scowled at the mere sight of her, looking the picture of effortless feminine beauty in her sky blue gown. Her auburn hair had been left loose and flowing, framing her face nicely. It wasn't Sansa's fault that she was beautiful, Arya reasoned. It _was_ her fault that she was a pain in the arse, though.

"Like I said," she continued. "It's Sansa they're here to see, not me."

"That's right," Sansa said firmly. She took a step towards her sister in what was evidently meant to be a threatening way, but the complete lack of intimidation about her meant that Arya couldn't take it seriously. "And if you mess this up for me, Arya, I will kill you. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Arya rolled her eyes at her sister's dramatics. "Seven hells, Sansa, I don't care about your stupid prince, or your stupid betrothal, or the king or any of it! I'm not going to mess it up, and I'm not going to be rude. I just wish you'd all leave me alone!"

She pushed her mother's hand away and stormed towards the door, taking care to shove her sister as she passed. Sansa squawked in protest, but Arya ignored her. _Stupid, airheaded Sansa. Doesn't she know that there are more important things in life than marrying a prince?_

Arya kept walking, resolutely blanking the women calling after her. Sansa was lucky. She was finally going to get everything she'd ever wanted – a life in King's Landing as a princess in pretty dresses, and she'd be as far away from Arya as was possible in the Seven Kingdoms. Where was Arya's luck? She didn't want anything near as grand as her sister's dreams. She just wanted to be free to swing a sword and spar with her brother Jon, away from all the politics and the false pleasantries.

Most immediately, she wanted out of this awful dress. She toyed with the fabric, tempted to go back to her room and pull the damn thing off, but it had been an ordeal putting it on in the first place, and she wasn't eager for a repeat performance.

It wasn't fair. She wished, as she often did, that she was Arya Snow. Jon's bastard sister, free to come and go as she chose. No responsibility and no expectations. It would've been heaven.

"Don't you look nice?"

The voice came from behind her. Arya swung around to tell the speaker something very rude, but stopped when she recognised the messy dark curls and grey eyes of the very brother she'd been thinking of.

"They put me in a dress," she said.

"I noticed. You don't seem very happy about it." Jon grinned that easy grin of his that lightened Arya's mood every time.

"Would you be?"

"If your lady mother put me in a dress? No, I don't think I would."

Arya laughed. "You know what I mean. I thought you were out teaching Rickon how to fight."

"I was. We were ordered inside to clean up." Jon appraised her for a moment, before nodding thoughtfully. "You look beautiful like that, even if you hate it. Very grown up."

Arya glanced down at herself, surprised by the compliment. Since her fifteenth name day had come and gone two moons previously, people had always been commenting on how grown up she looked. Like Lyanna all over again, some would say. Arya had never believed them. After all, Lyanna Stark had been beautiful – and Arya wasn't.

"I'm not beautiful."

"Are you calling me a liar?" he asked, smiling.

Arya thought about that for a moment. Whatever else Jon might've been, he was no liar. He couldn't lie very well, anyway. Arya could always tell. He didn't seem like he was pretending this time.

"No."

"In that case, say thank you."

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you."

Jon smirked. "We might make a proper lady of you yet."

Arya shoved her brother, and none too gently. Laughing, Jon staggered backwards. He held out one arm to catch himself against the wall and stared down at her fondly.

"Have you heard anything about the prince Sansa's being married off to?" Arya asked. Jon tended to overhear things she didn't, on account of the fact that nobody really noticed when he was there.

"Not much. People that have been to King's Landing harp on about how the both of them will make a handsome couple, though."

"Good, because that's all Sansa cares about," Arya said nastily.

"Arya, don't be horrible. I know that you don't like Sansa most of the time, but she's still our sister. You still love her."

Arya sighed and leaned against the wall. She was well-used to that chastisement by now. "Because I have to, not because I want to."

"Does it matter?" Jon probed gently. "Love is love, in the end. It doesn't make a difference how it comes about as long as it's there."

"You sound like Maester Luwin," Arya grumbled.

Jon reached over to ruffle her hair, but when he saw the effort that had gone into styling it, he retracted his hand with an apologetic half-smile. "Sorry, little sister. I don't mean to lecture you."

She nodded in response. Jon's gaze flickered to something over her head, and he grimaced. "The King's party has arrived."

Arya turned to peer out of the window as he indicated. Sure enough, she could see that beyond the gates of Winterfell, a procession of horses and carriages were making their way towards them. They'd be at the keep within twenty minutes.

"Well, here goes nothing," Arya sighed. She squinted into the distance. "Which one is the king? I can't see him."

"I don't know. He's probably not at the front." Jon stepped forward for a better look. "But, look, see? There's Jon Arryn."

Arya followed his finger to where a man sat atop a palomino stallion, his white hair glinting in the watery afternoon sun.

"Arya? Jon?" A voice from behind them made the two jump. Whirling around, Arya saw her eldest brother, Robb. He was dressed in all his finery, newly shaven, and Arya couldn't help but think that he carried the look off far better than she could've. _He looks like a lord, _she thought.

"I suppose Father wants us downstairs," Arya said.

"Aye. But Arya… please don't mess this up for Sansa. Not today."

She was nettled by that, and opened her mouth to say so. To her surprise, Jon beat her to the punch. "Don't be stupid, Robb. Arya isn't going to do anything. She's just going to stand there silently until she gets the chance to escape."

"What he said," Arya echoed with a firm nod.

Robb grinned. With his groomed auburn hair and deep blue eyes, he looked more Tully than Stark. Arya, like her bastard brother, had much more of the north in her. She supposed that was why she always looked untidy compared to her siblings.

She and Jon followed Robb outside. The household and servants were all already lined up in formation. At the front of the party, just inside the gates, Arya saw the tall, imposing figure that could only be her father. On his left, her lady mother and sister stood, looking more beautiful and poised than ever. She hurried towards them, almost tripping over the hem of her dress. Jon reached out a hand to steady her as she fell, giving her an encouraging smile before blending into the background.

Robb took his place on their father's right, next to thirteen-year-old Bran. Rickon looked small and bird-like next to him, barely past his ninth name day. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Arya suspected that he was the only member of the Stark family that was more excited than nervous about their royal guests.

As she passed her father, Ned Stark reached out one hand to catch Arya's wrist. She paused, looking up at him questioningly. He leaned down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. "Try to stay in the dress until after dinner, won't you?"

Arya smiled. Her father never fussed or lectured. He was always the one who fought for her to be able to learn swordplay and archery. He was the one who had taken her on rides since she was small. He understood the wild restlessness that lay deep within her soul. _You have the spirit of the wolf, _he would say to her. _Your aunt Lyanna had it, and your uncle Brandon even more so. _

"I promise, Father."

He smiled down at her, watching as she slotted herself into the line beside her sister. As one, the Starks of Winterfell watched and waited for the King to pull up.

The procession began to enter a few minutes later. They were a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong. A pride of bannermen and sworn swords and freeriders. Of the notable figures under the golden banners emblazoned with the stag of Baratheon, first came Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, white-haired and shrewd-eyed. Next came a man dressed in golden armour, an impossibly handsome man. His golden hair and bright green eyes could only have meant he was Ser Jaime Lannister. He was everything a knight should've looked like, Arya thought. Tall, strong and proud. But even though he had titles and power, even though the smallfolk looked at him with awed eyes, there were still those who kept the rebellion fresh in their minds. Those people would talk about what he did to the Mad King. They would tut and glare and whisper 'Kingslayer' behind his back.

An enormous golden carriage drew up next, lavishly inlaid with precious stones. Arya figured that the carriage must've housed Queen Cersei Lannister and her younger children, because behind them rode the eldest.

Sansa beamed widely beside her as Prince Joffrey came into view. The southron heir to the throne was the younger image of his uncle, all golden curls and emerald green eyes. An ornate sword hung from the scabbard at his hip, and the gaze with which he surveyed the waiting northmen was proud and haughty. He was eight-and-ten years, nearly the same age as Jon, but there was none of Jon's easy amicability in his expression. Arya instantly decided that she didn't much care for the young man who was to be her sister's betrothed.

Beside him rode the man with the terrible burned face, Sandor Clegane, the one they called The Hound. Arya shuddered as her eyes fell on his melted, ruined flesh. She wondered what it was that had happened to him to make those scars, but wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to know.

The stunted little man behind them must've been the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. His mismatched eyes glittered with wry amusement as he surveyed the gathered crowd.

Last came the one they were all most anxious to see, flanked by the white cloaks of the Kingsguard – King Robert Baratheon himself. Arya's first impression was that he was not the man her father had often described to her in stories. He was at least six feet tall, true, but he was easily just as wide, with a bushy beard and salt-and-pepper hair. He wore armour much too ostentatious to be practical, and sat astride the biggest horse she had ever seen. He seemed nothing like the strong, brave boy with the hypnotic blue eyes from her father's tales.

Everyone around her sank down onto one knee as the king tugged on his horse's reins, but something caught Arya's eye and distracted her completely. It was a boy, maybe a few years older than her, riding on horseback a little to the left of the king. He, Arya thought, looked _exactly_ the kind of hero her father had described. He was undeniably handsome – strong, well-muscled, broad of shoulder and black of hair. His features had a serious, brooding look to them that reminded Arya a little of her half-brother, and his eyes were piercingly blue.

A tug on her skirt forced Arya to look down. Sansa's livid face glowered up at her, and she growled one simple word under her breath. "Kneel."

Feeling a little foolish, Arya belatedly knelt just as the king swung himself down from his steed and landed on the dry ground with a loud thud. He swaggered over to her father, stopping just a foot or so short of him.

"_Ned_!" King Robert boomed with enthusiasm.

"Your Grace," Ned Stark greeted, still with his head bowed.

"Oh, get up." King Robert reached down and hauled Arya's father to his feet. Everyone else rose in unison as the king swept the lord of Winterfell into a bone-crushing hug. "Ah, but it's good to see that frozen face of yours!"

"Winterfell is yours."

The door to the carriage opened, and out stepped Queen Cersei. The little princess and the youngest prince followed, and it appeared to Arya that all three of the royal children had taken after their mother in looks. The queen was a vision of beauty, prettier even than Sansa, as she extended her hand and allowed Ned to kiss her ring.

King Robert scooped Arya's mother into a hug next, greeting her like a long-lost sister. "Cat! You're looking lovelier every time I lay eyes on you."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Catelyn beamed, charming and ladylike as ever.

"And this strapping young man must be Robb," King Robert stepped forwards to clap him on the shoulder. "And your daring son, Brandon, and this little one… you look like you could be a knight one day."

Rickon flushed with pleasure, and Arya found herself warming to the enormous king in spite of her initial impression. King Robert moved to the girls next, positively fawning over Sansa as expected.

"What a beauty you are, my lady Sansa. The image of your mother!" He laughed – a sound like a cannon being fired, and finally stopped at Arya. She had to crane her neck back to see him – he was easily six and a half feet tall. The king's eyes widened when she looked him full in the face.

"By the Seven…" he murmured. "You look just like her."

Arya knew he was talking about her aunt from the sudden softness and sadness in his tone. Queen Cersei shot her a sharp look that almost made her flinch, but Arya held her ground.

"This is my youngest daughter, Arya, Your Grace." her father offered. King Robert's expression cleared, and a grin crept its way onto his face.

The king only lingered for a second, before moving on to greet Theon Greyjoy. Arya felt a twinge of annoyance at the fact that nobody introduced Jon.

The introductions of the king's children were made next. To Sansa's delight, Joffrey smiled at her when he was introduced, brushing a kiss against her knuckles and murmuring something complimentary that made her turn bright pink. Arya barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen were introduced next, and the pair of them seemed completely ordinary to Arya. She'd expected more from princes and princesses.

"And this," King Robert indicated with an encompassing wave of his hand. "Is my son, Gendry."

The boy Arya had noticed beforehand stepped forward, bowing his head in greeting. "Lord Stark, Lady Stark. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Why doesn't he have a title?" Arya leaned across to whisper to her sister. Sansa, who was looking equally bewildered, shrugged.

The answer to her question came from Queen Cersei's mouth. "Your bastard, you mean," she said coldly.

Arya flinched at the word. She had always hated it. She saw how much anguish it brought her brother, Jon. To her surprise, though, Gendry didn't even blink. King Robert, on the other hand, shot his wife a quelling look.

"Hold your tongue, woman. He may not bear your golden curls, but the boy's name is Baratheon, and you'd do well to remember that."

_An acknowledged bastard, _Arya thought curiously. _But with no claim to the Iron Throne. The Lannisters saw to that. _She tilted her head, watching Gendry Baratheon closely. If King Robert had looked like him back when he battled Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident, it was unsurprising that he was the fantasy of every maiden in the land. She now understood, though, how it was that the Baratheon boy reminded her of Jon. All bastards shared that same look in their eyes. The look of not quite belonging.

Gendry's eyes flashed up suddenly, and he caught Arya staring. The smallest of smiles quirked the corners of his lips upwards.

"Ned," King Robert turned back to Arya's lord father. "I would ask you to show me to the crypt. I wish to pay my respects."

Her father nodded instantly, a soft look in his eyes. "Of course, Your Grace."

"We've been journeying down the Kingsroad for nearly a month," Queen Cersei interjected. "Surely the dead can wait."

King Robert shot her another sharp look. She fell silent, looking mutinous, until the Kingslayer reached over and towed her away by the arm. Arya watched as her father led the king away.

Her mother and Robb struck up a conversation with the Lannisters, while Sansa batted her eyelashes coquettishly at the crown prince in a way that turned Arya's stomach. Instead of joining them, Arya just stood there.

"He's gone to visit her, hasn't he?" A deep voice asked quietly. Arya turned, only to find Gendry Baratheon at her side. He was nearly as tall as his royal father, she noticed.

"What?"

"My father. He's gone to visit the Lady Lyanna's tomb."

"Oh." Arya hadn't really thought about it, but it made sense. The queen's reaction, as well, seemed to fit with this theory. "I suppose so."

"He loved her, you know." Gendry continued. He spoke with the same quiet gravity as Jon did, and Arya found it much more pleasant than the overbearing tones of Prince Joffrey. "I remember him telling me stories of her when I was a child."

"But he loves the queen, now," said Arya.

"If you say so," Gendry murmured, so quietly that she couldn't be sure she had heard him.

* * *

The feast that night was as grand an affair as the Starks had ever thrown. The Great Hall was hazy with smoke and swelled with the sounds of chatter. The pleasant scents of roasted meat and summerwine hung heavily in the air. The grey stone of the walls had been covered up by the banners of all the great houses who dined there – white, gold and crimson; the direwolf of House Stark, the crowned stag of Baratheon, the lion of Lannister. A minstrel plucked at his lyre in the far corner, warbling some victory song about the Battle of the Trident. Arya sat at the high table, sandwiched between her blushing sister and chubby little Prince Tommen, wishing for the umpteenth time that day that she could've been seated amongst the shouts and laughter of the smallfolk and the bannermen gathered on the benches below.

Unlike most meals, she didn't even have Jon to talk to. He'd been shunted off to the other end of the table with the Baratheon bastard boy. The two sat engaged in quiet conversation, virtually ignored by the Lannisters on either side of them. It annoyed Arya that her brother was shoved to the edge. Particularly because she was forced to endure the loud and obnoxious ramblings of the golden-haired crown prince sitting on Sansa's other side. _An accident of birth_, she thought, _that's the only difference between a king and a bastard. What a stupid rule_.

King Robert and Queen Cersei sat between her lord father and her lady mother, and both seemed to be making a conscious effort to speak to their hosts whilst ignoring each other. Arya thought that strange, but she didn't spend too much of her energy dwelling on it. A sharp kick to the shin jerked her out of her train of thought. She glanced up to see her younger brother inclined across the table towards her.

"You don't look very happy," Bran mouthed.

"I'm not." Arya mouthed back. "I want to leave."

Bran gave her a tight smile of sympathy. She almost thought he understood how she felt.

"Seven hells!" Joffrey's sharp yelp made the whole of the high table turn in his direction. "What is that _thing_ doing in here?"

Arya had no idea what he meant until she saw a very familiar furry snout poking out from under the table, just by the prince's foot. The direwolf's lips pulled back over her teeth as she snarled at him. Joffrey pushed his chair back with a loud scraping sound, whiter than the Stark banner that hung on the wall behind him.

"Oh no," she muttered. Arya ducked her head under the table and clicked her fingers. "Nymeria! Come here!"

The direwolf blinked her big yellow eyes, attempting to look innocent. Arya wasn't fooled. She'd scared Prince Joffrey on purpose. A rush of affection for her pet swelled in her chest, and she fought against the urge to burst out laughing.

"Arya," Catelyn leaned across the table, chastisement saturating her tone. "You know that she's not supposed to be in here during the feast!"

"Sorry, Mother, I didn't…" She trailed off as Nymeria snapped her jaws in Joffrey's direction again. The crown prince whimpered pathetically.

"Nymeria, come!" Arya commanded, slapping her palm against her own thigh. Finally, the wolf obeyed, trotting over to her mistress with her tail swishing happily through the air. She immediately became as docile as a puppy, even pausing to lick Arya's arm before curling up in a great furry ball at her feet. Cersei Lannister glared at Arya like she was trying to kill her where she stood. Arya felt more threatened by that look than she could've ever been by a direwolf. The queen probably wasn't going to rip her throat out, but Arya couldn't help but think that she might be holding that option in reservation.

Catelyn immediately began apologising to anyone who would listen, and Sansa chimed in. Arya glanced towards the other end of the table to find Jon and her uncle Benjen smirking at her. They weren't the only ones amused by the display; Tyrion Lannister was hiding a smile behind his goblet of wine, and Gendry Baratheon had his eyes fixed firmly on his dinner plate, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"Children don't have any business keeping beasts like that as pets," Cersei Lannister said. "They're dangerous."

_So am I, _Arya thought, but she refrained from saying it.

"Arya is almost a woman grown, and Nymeria has been fiercely loyal to her for years," her father said calmly. "I apologise if she gave you a turn, but the direwolf is the emblem of our noble house, and I won't cast them out of Winterfell."

Arya could've kissed Ned Stark, she was so grateful for the interjection. King Robert peered at her father through wine-glazed eyes, before letting out a great booming laugh that shook the whole table.

"Nonsense, woman! Joff isn't afraid of a pup like that, are you, son?" Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over and confided to Ned in a very carrying whisper, "Cersei babies the boy far too much, if you ask me. A man grown shouldn't need his mother's protection."

Both the prince and the queen looked mutinous.

* * *

The following evening, Arya found Jon Snow where she usually did. Sitting on the wall by the training ground, lost in thought as he stared at the well-used targets. She was grateful for the escape. All day, she'd been forced to endure hours on end of Septa Mordane criticizing her needlework and fussing over Myrcella. The southron princess wasn't even that _good_ at sewing, not like Sansa, but that didn't seem to matter to the stupid old Septa. She longed for lessons on the histories of Westeros with Maester Luwin, or learning swordplay with Ser Rodrik and the boys, rather than singing and poetry and all that other awful stuff.

"No fighting today?" Arya asked.

"No. Apparently Joffrey doesn't want to play children's games."

Arya frowned. "How is learning to fight a child's game?"

"Because Ser Rodrik wouldn't let him use a sword with an edge," Jon sighed. "He truly is a little shit, you know, Arya. I feel sorry for Sansa."

"I wouldn't," Arya muttered darkly. "Sansa doesn't much care what he's like. She's more in love with the idea of being queen one day that she could ever be with Joffrey, even if he was the nicest man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Ah, little sister," Jo chuckled. "Your tongue is almost as sharp as the Imp's, sometimes."

Arya didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not, so she let it go. "It's not fair, you know. Joffrey refuses to practice swordplay, but I'd give anything to be allowed."

"You're right, that's not fair." Jon reached over and tapped at the necklace dangling at her throat. "That's pretty."

"Mother gave it to me."

"That's the Stark coat of arms."

Arya clutched at the cool metal of the pendant for a moment, feeling another swell of bitterness creep over her. "What use is that to me, though? I'm a girl. I'll never get to fly a banner and fight to defend it, so why bother wearing it around my neck?"

"Therein lies your frustration," Jon joked dramatically. "And mine. Girls get the arms but no swords. Bastards get the swords but no arms."

It was another of those moments, Arya thought, where she and Jon seemed to understand each other perfectly. Bound together by the injustice of their birth and the kinship in their blood.

She changed the subject. "What do you think of the other princes?"

"Tommen is a sweet boy. Young, and innocent. Nothing like his brother."

"And Gendry?" This answer, Arya was most curious about. She didn't know quite what to make of Gendry Baratheon. At the feast last night, he had blended solidly into the background for such an imposing looking young man. He had barely said a word to anyone. He just sat there, picking at his food, chatting with Jon occasionally. The entire time, he looked as though he'd rather be sitting down on the benches with the smallfolk. He would answer when addressed directly, but never with more than a couple of words.

Jon shrugged. "Gendry isn't a prince."

"He's King Robert's son."

"His bastard. Not his heir."

Arya frowned at her half brother. "That doesn't make him any less than Joffrey. Just as you aren't any less important than me."

"Ah, little sister," Jon said again. "I wish everyone looked at the world the same way you do. As for Gendry, I like him. He's managed to escape the worst qualities of his family."

She leaned in closer and lowered her voice slightly. "They're awful, aren't they? The Lannisters."

"Lord Tyrion is okay," Jon allowed. "But I'm not so sure about the others."

"I don't like the idea of Sansa going off to King's Landing with them all," Arya confided. "Not at all. I feel as though Father is giving her to a nest of vipers."

"He has to do his duty to his king, Arya. As we all must. We need to start planning for the future. Strengthen our alliances. It's been a long summer, but you know it won't last forever."

"I know." And she did know. She was a Stark of Winterfell. "Winter is coming."

"Winter is coming," Jon echoed. He hesitated for a moment, and Arya felt a sudden gnawing in her gut that she couldn't explain. She just knew that he was about to say something she wouldn't like. "I spoke to Uncle Benjen at the feast."

"Oh?"

"I'm going north to the Wall with him when he leaves. If I get Father's permission, I'm going to take the black."

It felt as though Arya's stomach had dropped right out of her. The world tilted on its axis, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe. "You can't. You can't do that!"

"Arya, the Night's Watch is a noble and…"

"The Others take the Night's Watch!" Arya cried. "You can't join, Jon! You can't just go away and leave me! I won't see you for years, maybe not ever!"

"Arya…"

The sting of abandonment pierced her like a knife. It wasn't _fair_. Why did Jon have to go? Why her _favourite_ brother? He was the only one who ever truly understood her in Winterfell. With him gone, her life would be even more wretched than before. "No!" Her nails dug into her palms.

Jon reached out to her, and she slapped his hand away. His eyes, the same steely grey as her own, looked hurt. She didn't care, in that moment. She was too angry at him to think about his feelings.

Pushing off from the wall, Arya hit the ground running. She ignored Jon's protestations that rang after her into the night air. She just ran, as far and as fast as she could. Her feet seemed to be carrying her somewhere of their own accord. Belatedly, she realised that she was headed toward the godswood. The noise of the castle faded into silence behind her as she reached the carved face of the heart tree. With a heaviness in her chest that she couldn't lighten, she sank onto the bench by the lake, and succumbed to the tears of injustice that she'd been fighting all day.

Arya didn't know how long she sat there. It could have been minutes or hours. She cried for Jon, who was leaving her for the Wall and the wildlings. She cried for herself, left alone in Winterfell to face duties and obligations that she never wanted to be hers. She cried until she didn't have any tears left. Even then, dry sobs still wracked her slender body.

"Are you okay, Lady Arya?"

Arya jumped at the sound of a voice behind her. Hastily, she scrubbed her eyes to remove the last vestiges of her tears. The speaker came into view, vaguely illuminated in the moonlight. With a start, Arya realised that it was Gendry Baratheon.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, rather rudely.

"I thought I'd give praying to the old gods a try," Gendry shrugged. "The Seven have never really done much for me in the past."

"Oh."

"Why are you crying?"

"None of your business."

"I didn't mean to pry, milady. I was only wondering."

"Don't call me milady," Arya said vehemently. "It's Arya."

"Sorry."

Arya paused as something odd occurred to her. "You said milady."

"I won't say it again, if it upsets you."

"No, I mean, you said 'milady' and not 'my lady'. You sounded like you were lowborn."

Gendry smiled awkwardly. "I was. I mean, I thought I was a lowborn blacksmith, not a highborn bastard. I didn't even know that the king was my father until about a year past. He just showed up at the smithy where I was working, the Hand in tow, and named me as his son. I don't know why."

"How come you're called Baratheon?"

"I never knew my mother. Didn't know where I was born, you see? Didn't know if I was a Waters, or a Stone, or a Rivers, or even a Snow. I don't remember much about her. She had yellow hair, and she used to read me stories. That's all I know. My father gave me his name, but not his titles. The queen would never have agreed to that. She put up enough of a fight as it was."

"I don't like her at all," Arya said unthinkingly, and then clapped her hands to her mouth in horror. She expected Gendry to chide her, maybe even to run off and tell someone what she'd said, but instead, he laughed.

"No. I don't like her, either."

"We shouldn't talk like that. Anyone could hear."

"Who is there to hear us?" Gendry asked, spreading his muscled arms wide. "There's only you, me and the old gods here. I don't think any of us are going to tell her."

He had a point, and Arya knew it. She drew her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. A thousand questions rolled around in her head, but she couldn't separate them enough to ask.

"I like this place," Gendry offered, sinking down onto the bench beside her. "It's peaceful."

"The godswood? It's meant to be."

"Not just the godswood. Winterfell."

Arya tilted her head, eyeing him curiously. His blue eyes looked almost black in the moonlight. "You don't like King's Landing?"

"I lived in Flea Bottom most of my life. Then I moved to the Red Keep. I don't care for either of them, much."

"Oh," Arya said softly. She couldn't help but think of Sansa. Maybe she wasn't walking into the glamorous life she'd pictured? "What's so bad about the Red Keep?"

"The high lords. The way they play their game of thrones," Gendry said. "The politics. The tricks. It always feels dangerous, y'know? Like you have to sleep with both eyes open."

Arya shuddered. "Sansa's going there."

"I know." He paused. "But she'll be okay, your sister. She's a sweet girl. Not likely that anyone will think her much of a threat. She won't attract too much of the bad stuff."

Arya wasn't sure whether he was saying those things because they were true, or because they would make her feel better. She hoped it was the former. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For talking to me. You aren't nearly as bad as your brother."

Gendry frowned. "Joffrey? I don't really think of him as my brother, anyway."

"You don't?" Arya was surprised. She was so used to her own relationship with Jon – Jon, who felt more her brother than any of her trueborn siblings – that she never really stopped to consider that other relationships between bastards and lordlings could be different.

She supposed that she couldn't really blame Gendry for the way he felt. If she'd had a brother like hateful Joffrey Baratheon, she doubted that she'd want to claim him, either.

"No." Gendry stood, then, and offered Arya his arm. "Can I walk you back inside? It's late, and it's probably not safe for you to be out here all by yourself."

Arya scowled. "I'm fine. I can take care of myself, you know."

Gendry smiled. She was taken aback by the warmth of it. The rest of his family had such false smiles, the kind that were as fragile as the new leaves on a weirwood sapling. Gendry smiled like he actually meant it. It brought a glittering sparkle to his blue eyes that Arya quite liked. "I hear there are wildlings running loose in the woods up north."

"I'm not afraid."

"I don't think you are afraid of much, Lady Arya."

"Arya," she corrected instantly. "I'm no lady."

"And I'm no lord," he offered. "But humour me for a minute and let's pretend, shall we? Your father would have my head if he knew I'd left you out here at night by yourself."

Grudgingly, Arya stood. She ignored his proffered arm, though, and proceeded to march straight ahead of him. Gendry didn't seem to protest, or take offence. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, Arya could've sworn that she heard him chuckling to himself as he walked behind her.

When the pair reached the gates at Winterfell, Arya was surprised to find the place in chaos. People were running here and there, conversing with each other at top volume. She couldn't pick out any individual words in the chatter, but all of them sounded highly alarmed.

"What's going on?" Gendry murmured, finally catching her up.

"I don't know," she replied. Her teeth pressed down into her bottom lip as she surveyed the scene. Nothing looked out of place, but then, why would everyone have been so upset? Finally, she spotted a familiar figure jogging across the courtyard.

"Ser Rodrik!" Arya yelled. He changed direction and headed towards her. The look on his face filled Arya with a sick sense of dread. She knew at a glance that whatever was wrong would be something horrible.

"Lady Arya, there you are!" Ser Rodrik said with relief. "Your brother Robb sent me to fetch you."

"Why is everyone in such a state?" Gendry asked, beating Arya to it. "What's happened?"

Ser Rodrik's expression grew graver still. Arya's heart lurched into her throat. "It's Lord Arryn," he murmured. "The Hand of the King. He's dead."

* * *

_A/N - Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)_


	2. Gendry

**Chapter Two**

**GENDRY**

* * *

The king bore his grief in a way that was very regal, Gendry thought. Jon Arryn had as good as raised Robert Baratheon when he was a boy. Gendry knew that his passing was hurting his royal father a great deal, but he remained stoic in the face of his pain.

The Hand of the King had always seemed like a man of an iron constitution to Gendry. He was as eternal and unchangeable as the rocks that guarded Dragonstone from the tumultuous seas. It seemed odd that it was a sudden fever that took him. He had sickened so quickly that he was dead in his guest chambers before anyone had even known he was ill. A tragedy, everyone was saying. In the deepest, most secret parts of his thoughts, Gendry couldn't help but wonder if it were more than that. It seemed too neat to him. Convenient, almost. Planned. But he'd never dare speak those thoughts aloud. There was no point, anyway, because who would listen?

Lord Arryn's funeral rites were given him at Winterfell, but his body was to be carted back to the Eyrie on the morrow, to be buried by his Lady Lysa, as was his will.

Gendry sat in the Great Hall beside his family and the Starks as they broke their fast that morning, his insides too upset to bring himself to eat. He hadn't been close to the Hand, but Lord Arryn had been the only person in the Red Keep who had treated him with any respect. Well, Lord Arryn and his uncle Renly. His father, too, but usually that was when sober enough to notice Gendry's presence, which was only about half the time.

"Gods, I loved that man," King Robert sighed into his morning cup of wine. Well, his third morning cup.

"We both did," Lord Stark replied.

"You remember when I came to him as a boy, Ned? At sixteen all I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls, and he showed me what was what."

Ned Stark raised his eyebrows sceptically. Robert chuckled. "He did. It's not his fault I didn't listen."

Gendry found himself impressed by Lord Stark all over again. There were few men in the Seven Kingdoms who could openly mock his father and get away with it. Only Tyrion Lannister that he could think of, and he wasn't regarded with anywhere near the same amount of affection in the king's eyes.

"Robert, my sweet," Cersei interjected. Her long golden hair shimmered in the early light filtering through the window, making her eyes look like precious emeralds. She was lovely, Gendry thought, the comeliest woman he'd ever seen, but she was as cold as she was beautiful. "Must we talk like this while we eat? Particularly in front of the children."

Gendry glanced towards Myrcella and Tommen. Both seemed utterly preoccupied with their conversations with the younger Stark boys. He didn't think they'd even heard their father's words.

"Alright," the king said grudgingly. He turned back to Ned Stark, a dismissive gesture he'd perfected with the queen a long time ago. "Have you thought any more on my offer, Ned?"

Gendry knew what he was referring to – he'd offered the Handship to Lord Stark after the funeral yesterday. The Lord of Winterfell had promised to sleep on it. Gendry could tell that he was reluctant to make a decision at the table.

"Give me until the end of the day, Your Grace. I need to discuss it with Catelyn in private."

"Yes, yes!" Robert waved a hand. "As you will, Ned. I want my answer by the end of the day, though, and it had better be yes! I want you down south, not stuck up here in this frozen wasteland where you're no damn use to anybody."

Catelyn Stark, sitting on the queen's other side, looked like she had a few choice remarks to say on the subject, but she refrained. Gendry bit back a rueful smile. He couldn't blame her. If he had the option to stay in the north forever, he'd probably have taken it.

"You look lost in thought, Gendry."

A voice pulled him out of his reverie. He turned, expecting to see Robb Stark or Jon Snow addressing him. Instead, he found the Imp. His brow furrowed. He was never quite sure what to make of the little man. He could be wise, on occasion, but half the time, Gendry was convinced that he was making fun of him.

"Sorry."

Tyrion smiled. The gods had not been kind to him as far as looks were concerned. One eye black, the other green, and his blond hair like straw. He wasn't monstrous, but his face wasn't all that pleasant, either. Still, Gendry reflected, it was true what they said of Tywin Lannister's sons – one got good looks and a certain skill with swordplay, and the other got wit and cunning that easily outstripped most of the Seven Kingdoms. Gendry wasn't a stupid young man, nor was he ugly, or a bad sword, but he'd rather have Tyrion's smarts than Jaime's beauty, if asked to choose.

"Never apologise for thinking, bastard." Jon Snow, who was sitting nearby, flinched at Lord Tyrion's casual use of the word. Gendry was used to it. A long time ago, Tyrion had given him some good counsel on the subject – _Never forget what you are_, he had said. _Others will not. Take the name, make it your own and wear it like armour. Then it can never be used to hurt you. _

"Okay."

"What, pray tell, were you thinking of?" Tyrion continued.

"Oh," Gendry bit his lip. What to say? He couldn't very well tell the Imp about his conspiracy theories. "I was thinking about Lord Arryn, that's all."

"Yes, a tragedy," Tyrion sighed. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Although, have you ever noticed that tragic circumstances often seem auspicious on reflection?"

"I don't know what you mean," Gendry lied.

Tyrion gave him a long, hard look. "I'm not fooled as easily as the others, Gendry. I know that you're twice as clever as you would have people believe. And _I_ know that _you_ know precisely what I mean. Don't act as though the thought hasn't crossed your mind."

It was almost as though the Imp had powers beyond that of a normal human. Gendry had heard the palace servants talking about warlocks in the Free Cities many a time. One story stuck in his mind particularly; the Readers of Asshai, magic men who could pluck the thoughts from your very head, even as you thought them. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Tyrion Lannister had trained to do the same thing.

"It's dangerous to say things like that," Gendry muttered.

"And what is life without a little danger?" Tyrion took a sip from his goblet. "These are dangerous times we live in, whether we speak our minds or not. Your new friend Jon Snow knows about that, don't you?"

Jon glanced up from his plate upon hearing his name. "Pardon?"

"I was just speaking with Gendry about the dangers ahead of us. You're off to Castle Black at the week's end, are you not? Joining the noble order of the Night's Watch to defend us from all the horrors beyond the Wall – the grumkins and snarks and the dreaded white walkers."

Jon's fists clenched around his cutlery. "Don't make fun of me!"

Tyrion held his hands up in surrender. "I would never dream of it."

Gendry wasn't sure whether to admonish the Imp on Jon's behalf. He liked Jon Snow, liked him far more than he liked any of his half-siblings or the obnoxious lordlings sometimes seen at Court, but Tyrion was a Lannister. A small one, granted, but he still wore the lion embroidered on his doublet. He didn't want to humiliate him – after all, a Lannister always paid his debts.

Gendry elected to stay silent, shooting Jon a sympathetic look instead. The other boy sat back in his seat, apparently mollified by the show of camaraderie. Tyrion forgot about the tension in the conversation altogether; he helped himself to more bacon, whistling under his breath.

A slight figure moving towards the table caught Gendry's eye. He froze with his fork partway to his mouth as Arya Stark came into view. There was something about her that made it difficult for him to tear his gaze away. She was a pretty girl, slender and lithe in her movements. Her face was long, like Jon's, like Lord Stark's, and her hair fell in thick, dark waves past her shoulders. She wasn't delicate like her older sister, and Gendry liked that. There was steel in her spine and fire in her gaze – a gaze made all the more compelling by the fierce determination that raged behind her stormy grey eyes.

Jon watched her approach with some trepidation. "Good morning, Arya."

She glared at him in response. It amused Gendry slightly to see him recoil from the venomous look, despite the fact that Jon had over a head and shoulders of height on his younger sister, and certainly a few stone in weight.

"Is it?" Her voice was colder than a northern wind. "I wouldn't know." She seated herself beside Jon, but angled her body away from him. Instead, she turned towards Gendry's side of the table. "Hello, Gendry. Lord Tyrion."

"Lady Arya," Tyrion replied with a slight grin. He hadn't missed the frosty exchange between brother and sister, either. "How are you this morning?"

Arya shot Jon another nasty look. He flinched. "I've been better," she said. "You?"

"Entertained and enthralled, as always. Although a little chilly."

"Arya…" Jon murmured. "Can we just…?"

"Shut up," she snapped. He fell silent, looking aggrieved. Arya turned her attention to Gendry this time. "Did you want to go out to the godswood today?"

He was taken aback by her offer. "I… uh…"

"It's just that I'm going riding," she said quickly. "So I thought I'd ask. You don't have to, obviously."

"No, I'd like to." In spite of himself, it was the truth. They had been riding a few times in the week past, though never really was it publicly announced in the Great Hall like that. No doubt someone would've disapproved, whether of Arya's riding or Gendry's accompaniment. The Others take anyone who disapproved, Gendry thought. Wild Arya Stark of Winterfell was the most interesting company he had ever had.

"Good. At noon, then," Arya said, nodding slightly. Gendry nodded in return.

The pair went back to eating their breakfast without another word on the matter, though Gendry found himself fighting a smile the entire way through.

* * *

To his eternal annoyance, he found Joffrey lurking beside the stables by the time Gendry arrived. Arya was nowhere in sight, but his half-brother lounged up against one of the bolted gates, chewing on an apple and orating at length about something to his guard. The Hound was a faithful dog, at least. He didn't yawn at the tedious story as Gendry would have.

Joffrey spied him instantly. It was one of the curses of being over six feet tall and muscled well – it wasn't easy to slip past people unnoticed.

"Ah," Joffrey said. "It's my brother, the Bull."

It was a nickname that Gendry hated. Joffrey was almost the same height as him, but Gendry was twice as broad. It was all hard muscle, but his bulk made him slower and clumsier than the crown prince – a fact that Joffrey took delight in reminding him of.

"What do you want, Joff?"

"Oh, nothing. Off for a meeting with your little wolf friend again, are you? I don't see why you're bothering with her. She's a little girl." He sneered. For all everyone raved about his good looks, Gendry thought him rather ugly when he pulled that face.

"She's fifteen. She's not a little girl." And even if she was, Gendry thought, what would that matter? She was better company than Joffrey. Little _Rickon_ Stark would be better company than Joffrey.

"And you're nineteen. But I suppose, we don't all get pretty company like Sansa, do we? Some unlucky people have to settle for bestial little half-wildlings like her."

Gendry found himself getting far more annoyed than he normally got. Usually, Joffrey's barbs would bounce right off him. Not today. "Listen, you absolute…"

"Gendry!" Arya was running towards them across the yard, Nymeria at her heels. She was no longer in a dress – she wore light riding leathers in white and grey, and boots that went up to her knees. Her dark hair was loose and flowing – it tumbled halfway down her back, shiny but untamed. "I'm late, aren't I? Sorry, Septa Mordane was going on at me to finish my needlework, and…" She trailed off at the sight of Joffrey. It didn't take a genius to see the dislike in her eyes as she looked him over, but Joffrey was far too conceited to bother about Arya's opinion of him.

"I'd best be back up at the keep. Mother will be wondering where I've got to." The implication being that she'd rather Gendry stayed gone. He didn't rise to Joffrey's bait. He didn't much care whether the queen wanted him around or not. "Have fun on your little ride, _half_-brother. Lady Arya."

He tossed the apple core on the ground and unhitched himself from the stable wall. The Hound followed like a shadow as he swaggered back towards the keep. Arya watched their departure with thinly veiled loathing on her face.

"By the Seven, he's awful," she grumbled. "How can you stand it without wanting to punch him in the face?"

Gendry shrugged. "I want to. I just don't. More trouble than it's worth."

"Still…" Arya looked introspective for a moment. "You're a better person than I am, I think."

Gendry wasn't quite sure what to say to that. He settled on, "Shall we ride?"

Riding with Arya was, it transpired, fun. She wasn't like the southron girls Gendry knew – she could ride a horse as well as he could. Maybe, though he wouldn't admit it out loud, she was even better. They galloped through wintry field after field, cantering along winding roads and picking their way through the woods. Gendry couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so much. It was easy and free, out in the open air with nothing but two horses, a direwolf and a half-wild northern girl for company. He could forget his problems.

They stopped by the river for a while to let their horses drink and rest. Arya and Gendry sat side by side on a mossy log, passing a flask of water back and forth between them. They chatted amicably about nothing of importance for a while, until Arya's face grew solemn.

"What's wrong?" Gendry asked.

"I'm just thinking… if my father accepts your father's offer to be the Hand, then he'll have to go to King's Landing, won't he?"

"I suppose so, yeah."

Arya rested her chin on her hand, looking glum. "He'll make me go with him."

"Is that so bad?" Gendry asked. He hadn't exactly been complimentary about the capital, but he couldn't help but think that it wouldn't be so terrible if Arya was there with him.

"It won't be Winterfell," she murmured. "It won't be home."

She looked so forlorn that Gendry desperately wanted to do something to comfort her. It wouldn't have been right for him to give her a hug, and he wasn't very good at rousing speeches, so instead he patted her shoulder awkwardly.

"I'll be there," he offered. "You won't be alone."

She actually managed a small smile at that. "Well, I guess it won't be too terrible, then. So long as you're there."

Gendry's insides suddenly felt pleasantly warm, despite the late summer chill in the air.

"All that stuff I said... about the capital, I mean. It's not as bad as all that. There are some nice things."

Arya smiled for real that time. "Yeah, like what?"

"Like… the sea. You can stand on the beach in King's Landing and just look out over the rocks at the ocean. Sometimes I just sit there and follow it with my eyes, right out until it touches the sky. It's beautiful. And there's always something going on, some event or tourney or feast. There's plenty to explore down in the streets, too. Hundreds of alleyways and market squares and the like. Oh, and have I told you about the dragon skulls?"

"_Dragon_ skulls?" Arya gasped. Her grey eyes were as wide as saucers. "Where?"

"In the Red Keep." Gendry was enjoying impressing her. It was rare that he had a willing audience for his stories. "I had to go right into the basement chambers to find them. It's a maze down there, but eventually I found them all, where my father had them hidden away. There's dozens. Some of the newest ones are pretty small, no bigger than dogs' heads. But the further up you go, the bigger they get. The oldest ones are huge. Big enough to swallow an aurochs whole. Balerion, the Black Dread, his skull is big enough that I can stand in between the gaps in his teeth without having to bend over."

"Wow," she breathed. "I want to see them."

"You will. I'll show you, once we go to King's Landing."

She actually looked excited by the prospect, and Gendry felt better. He was used to his own company, but the idea of Arya being around filled him with a sense of happiness he rarely felt when he thought of his home in the south.

"I still don't much like your family," Arya confided. "But I'm glad you won't be leaving me. I… well, you're alright. You know, for a Baratheon."

Gendry grinned. It wasn't exactly high praise, but it was a compliment coming from Arya Stark. "It's because I don't have any Lannister in me."

"You said the other day that Tyrion is okay," she objected. Gendry shrugged, allowing that.

"Yeah, Tyrion is okay." He paused wondering whether or not he should tell her about the conversation they had had at breakfast.

"What is it?" Arya frowned. "You're hiding something."

How did she do that? "I'm not. Not really."

"Yes, you are. I know you are. Don't lie to me, Gendry. Please."

He couldn't refuse her when she said please. He could barely refuse that earnest, wide-eyed look even when she was being rude and calling him an idiot. He sighed. "Tyrion said something strange to me this morning, that's all."

"What did he say?" Arya leaned closer.

"It was about Jon Arryn. He didn't outright say it, but I think that he thinks there was more to his death than just a fever."

Arya's mouth dropped open. "Why would he think that?"

Gendry stared down at his hands for a moment. He was twisting his fingers around each other – a nervous habit he had had since he was small. "I don't know," he murmured. "But… I think he's right."

The words hung in the air between them for a few moments. Arya was silent in her shock. The only noises were the rustling of the leaves and the odd loud exhalation from one of the horses.

Eventually, she spoke. "What proof have you got?"

"None. It's just a feeling in my gut."

"No one can be sentenced, or even accused on as little as a feeling, Gendry."

"I know that," he replied. "Gods be good, I know. I can't do a damned thing. But it doesn't stop me thinking that Lord Arryn was murdered."

Arya looked conflicted. She chewed on her bottom lip, watching the horses as they lapped up water from the shallower parts of the river. Her grey eyes seemed a million miles away. "He got very sick very quickly, didn't he?"

"Too quickly," Gendry said. "It didn't seem… right."

"Who killed him, d'you think?"

Gendry sucked in a breath. He'd been mulling over that question since before the funeral, and each time he pondered he came up with a different theory, each one scarier than the last. "I don't know. Someone who had something to cover up, I guess."

"Did he seem worried or anything the last time you spoke with him alone?" Arya shifted on the log, bending one knee so that she could face Gendry head on. Her pretty face was filled with fearful curiosity. He knew, in that instant, that he had made the right decision in confiding in her. She was just like him – fear wouldn't stop her from trying to find out the truth. "Gendry, did he?"

A memory crept into his mind, one he hadn't considered before. It wasn't the very last time he spoke with Jon Arryn, but it was one of the last times before they left King's Landing. He had climbed the stairs to the Tower of the Hand, and found Lord Arryn alone in his chambers, reading a heavy old tome. Gendry had made a lot of progress with his reading in only a year, so he could understand the title. _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children. _It looked like a dull read, in Gendry's opinion.

Arryn had shut the book when he saw Gendry approach, and the two had chatted for a few minutes about the upcoming journey north. There was nothing extraordinary about it, nothing even worth remembering, except for the moment before they had parted. Jon Arryn had reached out and touched Gendry's hair. He had frowned into the younger man's face for a few seconds before murmuring something like 'the seed is strong'. Gendry still had no idea what that meant, but in the face of the Hand's death, it somehow took on a new significance.

"I don't know, Arya," he said slowly. "If he was worried, he didn't tell me."

_The seed is strong, _Gendry thought. _What on earth could that have meant?_

"King's Landing is a dangerous place to be, right now. Isn't it?"

Gendry turned to look at the younger girl. Despite her fierceness and her determination, he could tell that she was afraid. Beneath the layers of bravado, she was just a frightened girl, same as any other. He wanted to tell her that everything would be okay. But this was Arya, not some simpering maiden, and she deserved more than a lie.

"Yes. But everywhere is dangerous, these days." He saw the corners of her lips quirk upwards, as though she'd heard that before.

"Winter is coming," Arya quoted.

"I suppose it is." The words of House Stark had always seemed a little strange to Gendry. They were a warning, rather than a boast. He thought of his royal father's words. _Ours is the Fury. _Maybe it was wiser to have a warning.

"We'll need to stick together in King's Landing, Gendry," Arya said quietly. "You and me. We'll need to watch out for each other. Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it."

She wasn't the only one. Gendry fought back a shiver as he thought of all the bad things that could potentially happen in the capital. Tyrion Lannister might've made fun of the grumkins and snarks and white walkers, but Gendry couldn't help thinking he'd rather face mythical monsters than the very human kind that waited for them all back at Court. Men like Littlefinger, who planned his moves years in advance. Men like Varys, who knew every tiny detail about the intimacies and secrets of city life. And, most importantly, men like Tywin Lannister, who placed ambition over honour every time. They were the kinds of men who scared Gendry the most.

"We will stick together Arya," he whispered. "That's if you come. Your father might say no."

"We both know that he won't. He's a man of honour and he'll always do his duty to the realm."

She looked so small and afraid in that moment that Gendry reached over to gather both her hands up in one of his own. Arya smiled at him gratefully as he gave her fingers a comforting squeeze. If Ned Stark said yes, then they would doubtlessly head off down the Kingsroad in a couple of days. The thought filled Gendry with a helpless dread.

Arya drew her knees up to her chest, and the pair stared at the river, each lost in their own miserable thoughts. It wasn't until much later, as the sun started to sink over the horizon, that Gendry realized that they were still holding hands.

* * *

_A/N - I'm probably going to do alternative POV for the rest of the story, but I might add some other characters' perspectives as we go. _

_Off down the kingsroad next!_

_Thanks for reading,_

_OVR_

_x_


	3. Arya II

**Chapter Three**

**ARYA**

* * *

Of course her father said yes to the king. He had the Stark honour and sense of obligation to the realm, after all. And, of course, Arya had to go with him. To teach her some etiquette and refinement, her lady mother had said, though she didn't look all that happy about it.

They were to leave Winterfell at the end of the week, just one day after Jon left for the wall. Arya didn't know if she could bear the thought of riding away from the north, from all she knew, and starting all over again in King's Landing. A place which was bound to be less tolerant of her free spirited behaviour than Winterfell had been.

She didn't complain out loud – Bran was too excited at the prospect of learning how to be a knight (though he was too young), and Sansa was beside herself with glee. Neither of them had really stopped to think about the bad things. Leaving home. Leaving their mother, and Robb, and Rickon. And then, worst of all, there was Jon. Leaving Jon, watching as he rode away on his horse to that frozen wasteland of a Wall.

Arya held her tongue when it came to her family, but that wasn't to say that she didn't have a good place to vent her frustration. She would sit by the pool in the godswood, knees bent up to her chest as always, and pour her heart out to the crimson leaves on the heart tree. Or, if she was lucky, Gendry would come with her, and she could grumble and groan to him. He made a better conversationalist than the weirwood trees. He actually answered her back.

The day before Jon was due to depart, Gendry had been waylaid by his father for some reason or another, so Arya made her journey to the godswood alone. She sat on the carved bench, set her chin on her knees and frowned down at the pool. Her reflection stared back at her from the glassy black water, pale and scruffy.

Rather than obsessing over Jon's departure, or her own, Arya found her thoughts wandering to a strange place. She found herself thinking about Gendry, shut up in the keep with his royal father and his heinous brother. Pity swelled in her chest. It wasn't fair, she thought. She thought those words so often these days that they were becoming her mantra.

Arya would never have admitted it to his face, but she felt a little lonely without Gendry sitting beside her. It was an alien feeling. He was bullheaded at times, and exasperating – plus he'd taken to calling her _m'lady_ whenever she was getting on his nerves – but over the past couple of weeks she had grown _almost_ fond of him. Fond enough to miss his company when he was gone. She couldn't deny that Gendry's easy smile made her day a little brighter whenever she saw it.

_Gods be true_, Arya thought, _I'm_ _turning into a sentimental fool like Sansa. Kill me now_.

She shook off the warm feelings. The last thing she needed was to be going soft when she was headed to that viper's nest they had the cheek to call a capital. But at least Arya wouldn't be going alone. Gendry would still be there, ready with a grin and a quip when she felt down.

"Don't be ridiculous," she told herself sternly. "Get a grip on yourself, Arya."

"Talking to yourself?"

Arya whipped around, her heart jumping in her throat, but she quickly realised that the person who had spoken had much too high a voice to be Gendry. Disappointment crashed down on her as she recognised the tall, slim figure picking her way daintily through the trees.

"What are you doing here, Sansa?" she demanded.

Sansa looked offended. "I pray to the old gods too, little sister."

Arya felt herself bristling at the patronizing term. Only Jon was allowed to call her that. "I never see you out here."

"Well, I decided to come today. Mother is busy with Queen Cersei, and the boys were doing their stupid fighting in the yard. Father is with King Robert and Prince Joffrey…"

"And Gendry," Arya tacked on, annoyed that Sansa had left him out.

"I suppose so," she replied. She came forward to sit beside Arya on the bench. "You're sad about Jon leaving, aren't you?"

Arya glared. "Of course I am. Aren't you?"

Sansa bit her lip. "Yes. It's dangerous on the Wall."

"It's dangerous in King's Landing, too."

Sansa whirled around to face her, auburn hair swinging wildly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Forget it." Arya didn't want to ruin her sister's fantasy. She might've had a brain full of shimmery thread and hot air, but that might've actually been a good thing. Sansa was betrothed to Joffrey, and the more oblivious she was to his faults, the safer she'd probably be.

"You like him, don't you?"

"What?" It was such an abrupt change of subject that Arya felt completely lost. "I like who?"

"King Robert's son."

"Gendry?"

"Yes. You've been spending an awful lot of time with him." Sansa gave her one of those dreadful girly smiles, the kind she usually reserved for Jeyne Poole when they were gossiping about knights.

Arya rolled her eyes. "It's not like that. You always think everything's romantic when it's not."

"Good," she sighed. "Because you know that you can't marry a bastard."

"What?" Arya asked sharply. "I don't _want_ to marry him, but if I did, I could. The king claimed him, so he's not an ordinary bastard." _Not that it would stop me either way, _she added silently.

Sansa gave her a sideways smile. "Are you _sure_ you don't like him?"

"Seven hells, Sansa! I just told you that I…"

"Sansa! Arya!" The rest of Arya's sentence was drowned out as Robb came crashing through the undergrowth. He was slightly out of breath, his auburn curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. There was a crazed look in his blue eyes that made both girls immediately jump to their feet.

"What is it?" they chorused, in sync for once in their lives. "What's wrong?"

"Bran," Robb panted. He leant against a tree trunk, trying to catch his breath. "It's Bran. You have to come quickly… he… he was climbing, and he…"

Neither of them had to ask what had happened. Arya's heart was lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat as she tore her way back to the keep, her brother and sister at her heels. In another situation, she might've been impressed by how well Sansa was managing to keep pace with them, but her mind was too consumed with worry for Bran to comment on it.

"How did he fall?" Arya demanded of Robb as they ran. "He _never_ falls."

"I don't know." Robb sounded helpless. "I was sitting in Father's study when I heard Summer howling. I went to the window, and…"

"How far… did… he… fall?" Sansa wheezed.

"Too far. From the top of the tower."

Tears stung Arya's eyes, momentarily blurring her vision at the edges. She felt as though she couldn't breathe, and it wasn't the run that had robbed her of her breath. Her heart galloped in her chest, and each beat sounded like one simple word. _Bran. Bran. Bran_.

* * *

Her mother and father had been at Bran's sickbed with the maester all night, and Arya had not been allowed in. Still, she kept vigil on the balcony wall, staring up at the stars and praying to every god she could think of. The old and the new. She'd exhausted her prayers hours ago, but she remained perched on the cold stone. Waiting here was preferable to waiting in her room.

She wondered if this was what it felt like to take the black. Sitting on a wall in the cold, looking up at the night sky and waiting for a disaster that you knew was coming, but couldn't stop.

"And now my watch begins," she muttered.

"Arya."

She turned at the sound of her name, neck stiff from holding the same position for so long. Gendry was standing behind her, wrapped up in furs. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his breath misted white against the night air.

"He's not awake yet," she whispered.

Gendry stepped closer. "Look at you. You're freezing. You'll catch your bloody death out here without a cloak."

Arya shrugged. She hadn't noticed the cold. She had more important things on her mind. "I'm fine."

"You're not. You're turning blue. Here." Gendry reached up and unfastened his cloak, holding it out to her. Arya just stared at it for a few moments. Her numb brain couldn't process what he was doing. Gendry sighed and stooped, draping the warm fur across her body.

It was only then that the full force of the cold hit her. Arya gave a violent shudder and clutched reflexively at the soft lining. The cloak was still warm from the heat of Gendry's body. She pulled it tight around her, waiting, until inch by inch she felt the sensation returning to her extremities.

"Thank you." Arya sighed, leaning her head back against the pillar of stone.

"It's nothing." Gendry looked at her for a moment, a searching, sad look. "I… I'll leave you alone, if you want. I just… I wanted you to know that I'm praying for Bran. Not that I'll be much help, I mean, the gods haven't ever listened to me before – the old or the new. But I wanted to tell you that I'm here."

He started to turn away, but Arya lurched forward, holding out one hand to halt his progress. "Gendry, wait. Can you stay for a bit? I need the company."

Gendry almost smiled. "Of course, m'lady."

Arya glared, but her heart wasn't really in it. Her mind was elsewhere – with Bran, and her mother, and her prayers. "Don't call me m'lady."

"As m'lady commands."

She shoved his shoulder, and he laughed. It was a soft, hesitant laugh – like he wasn't sure he was allowed to laugh in front of her, given the circumstances. Arya felt herself smile slightly in return. She wasn't happy, not by a long way, but she felt lighter than she had since she'd found out about Bran.

"He never falls."

"Sorry?" Gendry frowned. He leant against the balcony wall beside her, almost close enough that her booted toes were touching the steel dagger strapped to the side of his hip.

"Bran. They said he fell while he was climbing, but Bran's been climbing since he was five years old, and he never falls."

"He did this time," Gendry pointed out, though she could tell he was trying to be gentle about it.

"I know that, but…" Arya trailed off. She wasn't sure _what_ she knew, exactly, but she knew that there was something off about the whole situation. "Something doesn't add up."

He looked at her again, blue eyes boring into her grey ones. He had furrows in his brow, the way he got when he was thinking intently. Suddenly his expression smoothed out and his eyes widened in comprehension.

"Seven hells, Arya," he murmured. "You aren't saying that this wasn't an accident, are you?"

"No," she agreed. "I'm not _saying _that."

But she was thinking it, and now she knew that she wasn't the only one.

"Who would push a thirteen year old off a tower?" Gendry hissed.

"I could guess. But I won't." Arya didn't want to tell him, anyway. She trusted Gendry, but the idea of letting him know that she suspected his own blood was too horrible to contemplate. She couldn't think of anyone else that it could have been, though. Lannisters, she thought. Bran's fall had the lion's paw prints all over it.

"He's going to wake up," Arya told Gendry, her voice full of false confidence. She expected him to do as he usually did and tell her the truth, whether she wanted to hear it or not. Instead, he gave her a melancholy smile and said nothing.

Somehow, that was worse.

* * *

_A/N – This is a short one, but there will be another one out tomorrow, so hopefully that makes up for it. _

_Hope you enjoyed it! Thoughts are always welcome :) _


	4. Gendry II

**Chapter Four**

**GENDRY**

* * *

Bran Stark had not woken. He wasn't dead, but he still slept. Gendry leaned against the stone balcony where he had stood with Arya the night before, his heart heavy. He was not an optimistic person, and neither was Arya, but the way she had looked at him last night, with all that hope and fear in her stormy grey eyes… he couldn't bring himself to tell her that Bran was probably lost to her forever. But he couldn't bring himself to lie, either, so he had said nothing. He had never felt more useless than in that moment.

The door opened behind him, and Gendry turned to find Lord Stark exiting the room. His eyes looked bruised underneath, as though he hadn't slept all night. Gendry felt his stomach twist in sympathy, and – he was ashamed to admit – the smallest bit of envy. He doubted that his own father would look so distraught if something had happened to him.

"My lord," he called. He took great care to enunciate the words. As Arya had pointed out, a king's bastard shouldn't be speaking like a street urchin from Flea Bottom. Even though, in Gendry's heart, that was still exactly what he was. Eddard Stark turned, and immediately spotted him. He was hard to miss, after all.

"Gendry." He took a couple of steps towards the younger man. "Do you need something?"

"No, my lord. I was just… I was wondering if there's been any change with Bran."

Ned Stark sighed. "Nothing yet. The maester says that if he makes it through the night he could well recover. Though none of us know what state he'll be in when he wakes up."

"I'm so sorry that this happened," Gendry said. He meant it, too. He hadn't known Bran Stark long, but it was long enough to see that he was a sweet, kind boy. He didn't deserve this fate. A fate that may not have been as accidental as it seemed.

Gendry shook that horrible thought from his head as Lord Stark bade him thanks and left. He stood there for a moment, staring at Bran's door. He would have prayed to the gods if he thought it would've made any difference. But Gendry Baratheon was nothing if not realistic. The gods might've been watching, but they were either too cruel or too uninterested to answer any prayers, particularly the unspoken prayers of a bastard boy.

"And here, look. The bastard boy comes to give the Starks his condolences, and my repulsive nephew is yet to make an appearance. Apparently being raised a prince doesn't engender courtesy as much as being born to a tavern wench."

Gendry felt a half-smile on his lips as he heard the familiar drawl from behind him. He did not bother to turn around. He knew who would be standing there. "Lord Tyrion. What brings you up here?"

"The same thing as you, no doubt." A long shadow fell across the path of the lantern light, and for a moment, Tyrion Lannister stood as tall as Gendry himself. He was almost surprised at having to look down at the Imp when he finally came into view. "I'm here to call on poor young Bran."

"Have you not done that already?"

"I have. But I don't do it out of obligation, so here I am again."

Gendry tilted his head curiously at the half man. "What do you do it out of then?"

"Genuine sympathy, Gendry." He nodded his pale head towards the tall man. "As, I suspect, are your motivations. You seem troubled."

"It's troubling." Gendry bit his lip. "And Arya – I mean, Lady Arya – she was up here last night, praying to the old gods and the new, just desperate for somebody to listen."

"_Lady_ Arya was, was she?" The knowing glint in Tyrion's gaze was off-putting. The glimmer of good humour faded the longer he regarded Gendry with his mismatched eyes. "A word of warning, my dear boy. Best not to get too attached to pretty things that aren't designed for men of our calibre. I've learned that lesson the hard way on more than one occasion."

Gendry bit down harder on his lip. He knew full well that he had no business getting attached to Arya Stark. That didn't seem to stop him from seeking her out, though. "Thanks for the advice."

"No problem." Tyrion sighed. "Jon Snow leaves for the Wall today."

"So I hear." Arya wasn't at all happy about it. She had near chewed Gendry's ear off ranting about the injustice of it all.

"Such a shame," Tyrion continued. "The poor boy has his head filled with ideas of grandeur and glory. He doesn't realise that he'll be breaking bread with all of the scum that Westeros didn't know what to do with anymore."

"Maybe he does, and maybe he doesn't care," said Gendry, feeling suddenly defensive of his friend. "You don't give him enough credit."

The Imp watched him for a second, an unfathomable look on his face. "Perhaps he is not the only one that I could be guilty of doing that with," he muttered. Before Gendry could make heads or tails of the comment, Tyrion Lannister swung on his heel and beckoned Gendry to follow. "Come along, we should eat something before the food is gone entirely."

* * *

The meal that had been set out for the guests lacked the usual warmth and care that Gendry had come to expect at Winterfell. He and Tyrion seated themselves at the high table, uninvited, where the Queen, her youngest two children and the Kingslayer broke their fast. Talking in low, hushed voices as they were, they barely noticed the new arrivals. Not that that was anything new for Gendry. He often went unnoticed in a room full of Lannisters.

"Is Robert still abed?" Tyrion asked. Cersei looked at him with that hateful expression she always wore when she looked at her dwarf brother.

"The king has not slept at all. He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart."

Gendry was glad of that, at least. In a court full of snakes, at least his father managed to hang onto a few good characteristics.

"He has a large heart, our Robert." Jaime Lannister grinned, although what could possibly amuse him about this situation Gendry didn't know, or want to know. He had never really trusted Jaime.

Tyrion twisted awkwardly in his seat as a servant approached. "Bread," he instructed, "and two of those little fish, and a mug of that good, dark beer to wash it down. Oh, and some bacon. Burn it until it turns black. And the same for Gendry here, except don't cremate his bacon quite so much."

The servant nodded and departed. Gendry shot the Imp a grateful smile. He didn't much care for the fish, but the gesture was kinder than he'd come to expect from anyone with the Lannister name.

Little Prince Tommen shot Gendry a cheerful wave, which he returned. Tommen was easily Gendry's favourite of his half-siblings. Myrcella was sweet, but a little airheaded. Joffrey was a vile creature. But Tommen was a gentle soul. He almost reminded Gendry of Bran Stark.

Funnily enough, the next words out of the little prince's mouth were just those. "Do you have any news of Bran, Uncle?"

Tyrion shrugged. "No change, although the maester thinks that to be a good sign."

"I don't want Brandon to die," Tommen said, voice quivering.

"Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well," Jaime interjected, stroking his chin in a thoughtful manner. "One of the hostages taken by Targaryen. It seems to be a rather unlucky name."

"Oh," Tyrion said, leaning back as the servant set his and Gendry's plates in front of them. "Not so unlucky as all that, surely."

"What do you mean?" It was the queen who spoke, and her emerald eyes looked sharp as knives. Gendry shuddered, remembering Arya's words to him the night before.

"Only that Tommen may get his wish. The maester says the boy may yet live."

The children beamed in delight, but Gendry didn't miss the swift glance between the queen and Ser Jaime. Neither, apparently, did Tyrion. He took a sip of his beer to mask it, but Gendry saw the Imp's face twitch slightly in his peripheral vision.

Cersei dropped her gaze. "That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the child linger in such pain."

"What were the maester's words?" Jaime asked.

Tyrion chewed on his bacon for a moment, considering. If Gendry didn't know any better, he would've thought that the little man enjoyed his siblings' obvious discomfort. "He thinks that if the boy were going to die, he would've done so already."

"Will Bran get better, Uncle?" It was Myrcella, full of wide-eyed hope. Gendry thought she was nothing like her mother, thank the gods for that.

"His back is broken, little one. His legs shattered as well. They keep him alive with honey and water, or else he would starve to death. Perhaps he will eat real food if he wakes, but he will never walk again."

"If he wakes…" The queen lowered her goblet slowly. "Is that likely?"

"The gods alone know. The maester only hopes." Tyrion trailed off into contemplative silence, chewing his bread. Gendry followed suit, diverting his gaze from the icily beautiful face of the queen. It made him uncomfortable to look directly at her for too long, mainly because he was never sure if she would bite him like an angry viper. And, like a viper, he was fairly sure that her teeth would be venomous.

"That bloody wolf keeps howling something awful," Jaime put in.

"I think it's what's keeping Bran alive," Gendry murmured. Cersei shot him a sharp, censured look.

"I won't be having any of those wretched creatures coming with us when we travel south," the queen said. "They're dangerous."

"You'll have a hard time stopping them, sister," Jaime pointed out. "They follow those girls everywhere."

"Are you leaving soon, then?" Tyrion asked, sipping his beer.

Everyone at the table turned to look at him in shock. "Are _we_ leaving?" Cersei demanded. "Do you mean to say you aren't coming with us? Good gods, you don't plan on staying _here_?"

"Benjen Stark is returning to the Night's Watch. He's taking his bastard nephew with him. I thought I might go and see this Wall we have all heard so much of."

Gendry's eyebrows lifted, just as his heart sank. Tyrion was the only member of the queen's family he could stand to have a conversation with. "You're not taking the black, are you?"

Tyrion turned to grin at Gendry. "What, and go celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on the top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."

Cersei stood suddenly with the deafening screech of chair on stone. "The children don't need to hear your filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come."

With that, she strode from the room, trailing her children behind her. Gendry remained seated, mostly because he would rather sit and eat with the Lannister brothers, but also because he would hardly be welcome to follow even if he wanted to.

"Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of death," Jaime said.

"He will if Robert commands it," Tyrion ventured. "And he _will_ command it. There's nothing Lord Stark can do for the boy in any case."

"He could end his torment."

Gendry cringed at the thought, but Tyrion merely gave his brother a rueful smile. "I would advise you not to say that to Lord Stark."

"Yes, but even if he does live, the boy would be a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good, clean death any day, over that," Jaime sighed, sipping from his tankard.

"Speaking for the grotesques," Tyrion said, "I would have to disagree. Death is so terribly final, whereas life is full of possibilities."

Gendry laughed into his beer. Jaime even cracked a grin.

"You are a perverse little imp, aren't you, brother?"

"Yes. Personally, I hope the boy does wake. I would be interested to hear what he has to say."

The smile slid off Jaime's face. Gendry felt that prickling sensation at the back of his neck once more. It was the feeling that something horrible lurked behind Jaime's cool green eyes. Jaime lowered his voice, so that Gendry had to struggle to catch his next words. "My dear brother, sometimes I have to wonder whose side you're on."

"_My_ dear brother, you wound me. You know how much I love my family."

Gendry stared down at his food, all sense of appetite gone. It felt as though there was a stone resting in the pit of his stomach, and all the time, he kept thinking of one thing only.

_Arya was right._

* * *

_A/N: Some of the dialogue here is seen in A Game of Thrones. This was sort of a filler chapter, because obviously the most important things going on before we leave Winterfell are from Arya's perspective. _

_Until next time!_


	5. Arya III

**Chapter Five**

**ARYA**

* * *

Arya stood peering down into the half-packed chest at the foot of her bed, hoping that she wasn't forgetting anything important. Behind her, Nymeria paced back and forth, impatiently awaiting further instruction.

"Nymeria, shoes," Arya instructed, and the direwolf reacted at once. As she trotted to her mistress's side, Arya gently lifted the shoes from her mouth and gave her an affectionate pat on the head. "Good girl."

Not paying any mind to the neatly folded clothes her lady mother had already placed in the chest, Arya threw the shoes down. They landed on top of the pile, and the slightly damp soles left marks on the topmost dress.

_Oh, well, _Arya thought. _It's not as though my clothes won't get all messed up when I'm travelling, anyway. _

A knock at her chamber door startled her. Arya turned around to see the long, solemn face of her dearest brother poking through the partway open door. He shot her a tentative smile, and when she didn't shout at him, he seemed to take it as an invitation to come further into the room.

There was a few seconds' pause where the pair just looked at each other, neither saying anything. Jon watched his sister warily, as though he were waiting for an explosion. To Arya's surprise, she didn't feel angry at the mere sight of him as she had every time since he'd told her he was joining the Night's Watch. The pain of Bran's fall coupled with the hollow ache she felt in her heart every time she thought of how much she was going to miss Jon had made her anger seem almost trivial by comparison.

A rush of affection overcame her, and she moved without thinking. She ran forward, throwing her arms around his neck. Jon seemed taken aback, but he quickly wrapped his arms around his little sister's waist, hugging her fiercely.

"I was afraid you were gone," Arya murmured. "I didn't think I'd get the chance to say goodbye. Stupid Septa Mordane wouldn't let me out."

"What did you do now?" Although her face was pressed into his shoulder, Arya could still hear the smile in her brother's words.

"Nothing." She released his neck and disentangled herself from his grasp. "I was all packed, and everything. Septa Mordane says I have to do it all over. My things weren't properly folded like a southron lady's things should've been. Apparently a southron lady doesn't throw all her clothes in a chest like old rags."

"Is that what you did, little sister?" Jon's smirk broadened.

"Well, they're going to get all messed up anyway," Arya protested hotly. "Who cares how they're folded?"

Jon laughed. He had always had such a warm laugh, Arya thought. It was a welcome contrast to his usual sombreness. Arya often wished that he'd laugh more frequently. "I've got a present for you," he whispered conspiratorially.

Arya's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Shut the door."

Intrigued, Arya hastened to do as she was bid. No sooner had the door slammed shut then she was back at Jon's side, eager arms extended. "Can I see it now?"

He grinned, and reached inside his furs. Arya watched with confusion at first, but that quickly melted into delight when she saw what he was holding. He peeled back the cloth that covered her gift to reveal it in all its glory – a shining steel sword.

Arya reached out a hesitant hand to pick it up by its hilt. She turned it this way and that, studying the blade carefully.

"It's so skinny," she murmured.

"So are you," Jon pointed out. "It won't hack a man's head off, but it'll poke him full of holes if you're quick enough."

Arya nodded. True, the blade was thin, but it looked wickedly sharp in the flickering torchlight that lit her bed chamber. More than sharp enough to do some damage. "I can be quick," she vowed.

"How do you like the balance?" Jon seemed more relaxed now that he'd seen her response to his gift. Arya knew that he thought she was much less likely to yell at him now.

"Good, I think," she replied. In all honesty, she wasn't sure. She liked to fight with her brothers in the yard whenever she was able, but she didn't really know much about swords and swordplay. Her lady mother had put her foot down too often for Arya to have received a proper education in that respect.

Jon smiled again. Looking into his face, Arya realised something unexpected – for all they had different colouring, Jon actually looked very like their brother Robb when he smiled.

"Here's your first lesson." He leaned forward, grey eyes alight. Arya mirrored his movement. "Stick them with the pointy end."

Arya glowered as he chuckled. "I _know_ which end to use." She couldn't stay annoyed in the face of his rare good humour, though. Instead, she sighed. "I can't believe you're leaving."

"I know." Jon's grin slipped a little. "Me up there in the north defending the Wall, and you down in King's Landing causing havoc. We'll be very far from each other. I'm going to miss you, little sister."

"I'm going to miss you, too."

And then, Arya suddenly felt overwhelmed. She was no longer a little girl, and her brother was no longer the dirty-kneed boy who would run ragged through Winterfell and ruffle her hair as he passed. He was a man grown, off to swear a vow to protect the world from the unknown, and she herself was a young woman headed south for months on end of unwanted pageantry. Soon enough she'd have to deal with all that being a young lady from a powerful house entailed. Courtship, marriage and children.

The thought almost made her want to trade places with her brother.

"What are you going to call it?"

"Huh?"

"Your sword." Jon gave her another broad smile. "All the best swords have names, you know."

Arya glanced down at the slender blade in her hand. It was a big decision. Suddenly, an image of her sister and their needlework lessons came to her mind, and she knew. She laughed softly under her breath.

"Sansa can keep her sewing needles," she told him. "I've got a Needle of my own."

Jon beamed.

At a loss for anything else to say, Jon opened his arms for a hug. Arya set her new sword down on her bed and threw herself at him. He lifted her clean off her feet in a motion that the two of them had synchronised over the years. Arya tried to pour all the emotion she wasn't comfortable expressing out loud into that hug. For all she knew, it could have been the last hug that she and Jon would ever share.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear. "So much."

His arms gripped her waist tighter. "No more than I love you, little sister."

* * *

When her father had ridden off with Jon that evening to accompany him halfway to Castle Black, Arya found herself strolling around the keep at Winterfell. She didn't have a destination in mind, she was more trying to distract herself from the uncomfortable prickling in her eyes whenever she thought of Jon's face.

She was surprised, therefore, when she turned a corner and walked into what was unmistakeably a fight.

Gendry and Joffrey were standing two feet apart in an otherwise abandoned corridor, and both were hissing at each other, rage etched on every line of their faces. Neither of them had spotted Arya yet. Thinking fast, she ducked into an alcove to watch their argument unfold without being seen.

"That's just what you think, isn't it?" Joffrey was sneering. "That you're better than I am? What a joke. You're nothing but a bastard."

Arya's fists clenched in anger at the same time Gendry's did. "I may be a bastard," Gendry spat, "but at least I'm not a cunt. You're pathetic, Joff. You think that Lady Sansa would have any interest in marrying you if she knew what you were really like?"

"Of course," Prince Joffrey responded without skipping a beat. "Because she wants to be queen. She's an airhead, and by the Seven, she's dull, but at least she's pretty to look at. I won't need her for anything other than sitting quietly and spreading her legs whenever I want to fuck her, so she'll do nicely."

Gendry looked utterly revolted. Arya felt a swell of affection for him in that moment. There was no love lost between her and Sansa, but she was still her sister, whatever her faults. It made her blood boil listening to Joffrey's slurs.

"The Others take you, Joff! You have no idea what it means to treat women with respect, do you? You have the nerve to run to your mother every time you have a problem that needs fixing and yet you talk about women as if they're beneath you! Even Father is better than that!"

"Father is a drunk and a lecher," Joffrey hissed. "He doesn't respect women any more than I do. And why should he? What is there to respect? He's a king. They're nothing." He laughed menacingly. "I've seen you, Gendry, following around after Arya Stark like you're a faithful stray dog she's picked up. Do you think you have a chance with her? Do you honestly think she'll want you? She's wild and ridiculous, but she's still a lady. And as a bastard, you command even less respect than a woman. You'll never have her, but it's so amusing watching you try."

Gendry drew up short at that. "It's not like that."

"No?" Joffrey sneered again. "I've seen the way you look at her. There's nothing special about her as I can see. She's not even beautiful. And you have the gall to call me pathetic? Seven hells, Gendry, you're the most pathetic bastard I've ever laid eyes on. That's the difference between you and me. I can have whatever I want, and you get to watch from the sidelines. It's almost a shame. I might even take your little Stark bitch, too. She's just the sort of wild thing that would do it, I reckon. I don't _want_ to fuck her, obviously, but it would be worth it just to see you squirm."

That's when Gendry lost his temper. His blue eyes darkened to a near black, and his jaw set. Arya sucked in a sharp breath of surprise as Gendry pulled his fist back and slammed it into the wall just beside Joffrey's head. The force of the punch was so powerful that Arya felt the stones she was leaning against vibrate. Gendry didn't even seem to flinch.

Joffrey did, though. He let out a terrified yelp and cringed away from his half-brother, and Gendry smiled with some kind of savage satisfaction. He could easily have hit the obnoxious prince had he wanted to, but he held back. Arya wondered what that said about him.

"Never, _ever_ talk about Arya like that again, or I swear to the old gods and the new that it will be the last thing you ever say."

Joffrey edged away from him, backing up until he was halfway down the corridor. "You'll pay for that."

"Going to tell your mother on me?" Gendry taunted. "That's your style, isn't it? You'd never dream of throwing a punch my way. _That's_ the difference between you and me, Joff. I fight my own battles. You run away and hide behind Cersei's skirts. You're spineless, Joff. A true craven."

"Maybe I will tell her," Joffrey replied, green eyes flashing. "You'd be out on your ear, back to Flea Bottom where you belong!"

Gendry shrugged. "Go ahead. I'd rather that than be stuck with you forever."

Joffrey's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything else antagonistic. Instead, he swept down the corridor and through the door at the end, muttering waspishly under his breath as he went. Gendry watched him go, his posture rigid and his shoulders tense.

It was only once the door slammed that Arya felt safe enough to reveal herself.

"Gendry?" she murmured, stepping out from the alcove.

He swung around at the sound of her voice, and his eyes grew wide when they landed on her slight form. "Arya? How… how much of that did you hear?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Um… a lot of it?"

Gendry bit his lip, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I'm so sorry. He should never have… I mean, I shouldn't have… I'm sorry."

It was then that Arya noticed the state of his hand. His knuckles were swollen from where he'd punched the wall, the skin split and oozing blood. The last two fingers of his injured hand were bent awkwardly, and Arya suspected that they were most likely broken.

"Gods, look at your hand!" she fussed, rushing forward. It didn't even occur to her to be afraid of him, not even after seeing him so angry and volatile. She knew that he wouldn't hurt _her_. Gendry didn't protest as she took his wrist and gently guided his hand up to better examine it in the light of the torches.

"It's fine," he muttered.

"It's _not_." It looked even worse with the light shining on it. Something was definitely broken. "You need to see Maester Luwin. He can clean it and strap up your fingers for you."

Gendry eyed her doubtfully. "Won't he ask me how I got it?"

"Probably," Arya shrugged. "But you can always lie and say you fell. That's what I do."

The corner of Gendry's mouth tugged upwards into the beginnings of a smirk. "Do you punch a lot of walls, m'lady?"

"No," Arya admitted with a grudging smile. "But I have been known to punch stupid, bullheaded boys who call me 'm'lady'."

He laughed. The sound made Arya feel warm inside, but it was a different kind of warmth to the type that Jon's laughter invoked. Arya decided that she quite liked the feeling. "Alright, you win. Point me in the direction of Maester Luwin's chambers."

"I'll do better. I'll take you myself."

Thankfully the maester was in his chambers when they arrived. To Arya's utmost relief, Maester Luwin did not ask questions about the circumstances surrounding Gendry's injury. He merely tutted when he examined Gendry's bruised knuckles and cleaned them up with a wet wash cloth, before setting to work taping up his fingers.

Gendry winced as the maester tugged gently at his warped hand.

"Don't be such a baby," Arya teased. She'd broken bones before, and she knew that it was painful, but she also knew that she would have welcomed a distraction from the pain while they were being reset.

"I'm not a baby," Gendry muttered, but there was the smallest of grins on his face. "You shouldn't be rude to people who are bigger than you."

Arya frowned. "Well, then I wouldn't get to be rude to anyone."

Gendry laughed heartily at that, but his laughter choked off abruptly as Maester Luwin gave his fingers another sharp tug.

He secured the bindings with a pin and a flourish. "There. That should heal up in a couple of weeks, as long as you don't move it."

"Only you would be bullheaded enough to do something like this," Arya pointed out. Gendry ran his good hand through his short dark hair, giving her his trademark lopsided grin.

"As m'lady says. Because I'm sure you have never done something idiotic that resulted in an injury."

"I feel as though that was sarcasm…" Arya said, narrowing her eyes.

He just smiled sweetly in response.

Gendry left with strict instructions not to damage his hand any further. Arya was about to follow him out along the corridor, but the maester pulled her to one side just before she left and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"I hope you know what you're doing, my lady."

"I don't know what you mean," Arya hedged.

"He looks strong," Maester Luwin nodded in the direction Gendry had just walked in. "But often the men who seem the strongest are the easiest ones to break. Careful now, child, that you do not break him by accident."

"I didn't do anything to his hand!" Arya protested. Maester Luwin laughed softly and patted her hair.

"It's not just a hand that can be broken, little lady. Now, I must go and check on your brother."

And with that cryptic comment, he swept from the room, leaving Arya staring confusedly in his wake.

* * *

Once everything was properly packed and loaded up for the journey south the next day, the sun had already set. A late summer snow sent a flurry of ghostly white flakes soaring past her bed chamber window, and Arya finally felt as though she couldn't put it off any longer. She needed to go and say her goodbyes to Bran.

Her brother's condition had not improved any, and she knew that. Her legs felt heavy as she climbed the stairs to his sick room. It sounded horrible, but Arya fervently hoped that her time to visit would be one of the rare moments when her mother was not there. She loved her mother dearly, and it hurt to watch Catelyn hunched over Bran's bed as she slowly became the broken shell of a woman that Arya had always admired.

Arya reached the door and took a deep breath. Upon opening it, she realised that she was in luck – her mother was not in the room. Her father, however, was. He sat in one of the rickety wooden chairs that normally stood by the writing desk, his knees touching the thick woollen blanket draped over Bran's useless legs. He had always seemed like a very large man to Arya – broad-shouldered and tall – but in that moment he looked _comically_ large. If Bran had been awake, she felt sure he would have laughed at the sight of their father crammed into that chair.

"Father?"

Ned Stark glanced up, and a small smile graced his mouth for his youngest daughter. "Arya. Come in."

She stepped further into the room, coming to stand at her father's shoulder. Standing, she was barely taller than he was seated. "How is Bran?"

"The same." Ned patted her brother's hand on top of the blanket. "But at least there's been no change for the worse."

"He will wake up," Arya promised. At least she sounded sure, she thought, even if she didn't necessarily believe her own words. "He's a fighter."

"Aye, he is that," her father nodded sagely. "He's a true Stark." They both peered down at his sleeping face. Arya thought he looked very peaceful, but very like a fair, auburn-haired Tully without that wild northern light in his blue eyes. It was odd. She was used to seeing that fierce determination in the set of Bran's jaw, the rebellious grin that would steal its way across his face.

He looked small and fragile without it, much younger than a boy of thirteen. Arya swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. Her father stroked her hair softly.

"Do you want to say goodbye in private?"

She nodded tautly. It was one of the many things that Arya loved about her father, that he knew when she needed time alone without having to be asked. He was always content to just let her be.

Awkwardly, he got up from his chair and offered it to her. Arya sank down, leaning forward and capturing Bran's hand in both her own. Ned gave her a fond smile before heading out of the room. It wasn't until Arya heard the thunk of the door shutting behind him that she felt free to let the first of her tears escape.

"Bran," she whispered, gripping his fingers tighter. "I know you can hear me. Maester Luwin says I can't be sure, but I _know_ you can. And you _have_ to wake up. For Mother. For Robb. For me, and Father, and Sansa, and Rickon. And for Jon, too. You need to go and visit him up in Castle Black, because I'm going to be too far away to get to go." Arya sucked in a deep breath and leaned even closer. A few stray drops of tears splattered onto Bran's blanket. "Listen to me. A lot of people are going to tell you that you fell from that tower when you were climbing. But I don't believe that for one second. I know you. You never fall. And I know that you must have seen something bad in order to get pushed. And I have a pretty good idea who pushed you." She leaned in so close this time that her lips brushed the outer shell of his ear. "Don't trust anyone who comes up here wearing Lannister gold. Wolves don't trust lions."

She twisted her head to one side and planted a kiss on her brother's cheek. He still felt warm, as though there was still a lot of life left in him. Arya prayed that that was true. "I love you, Brandon," she murmured, and sat back. "Be safe."

He made no movements that would have acknowledged her presence, not even a flicker of his eyes behind their closed lids, but in the corner of the room, his direwolf whined. Arya twisted in her chair in time to meet his yellow-eyed stare. There was something sentient behind his hunter's irises, a shadow of the northern wildness that she saw so often in Bran.

"You'll keep him safe, won't you?" she said.

The wolf dipped his shaggy grey head, and Arya could have sworn that the animal was accepting as solemn a vow as the one her brother was pledging north at the Wall.

* * *

_A/N - Sorry it's taken such a long time to update! Had a bit of writer's block, but I'm back on track now!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_OVR_


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